


Spill That Tea

by MaskoftheRay



Series: The Things That I Do For You [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet, Boys In Love, Bruce Wayne Has Feelings, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Bruce Wayne Tries, But also... the tea is that he struggles with self-esteem issues, Clark Kent is a good boyfriend, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gratuitous quoting of Socrates (well really Plato), In this house we RESPECT boundaries, Light Angst, Literally: Bruce spills tea, M/M, No editing- we die like womne, Potentially Crack-like situation written seriously, Protective Bruce Wayne, Protective Clark Kent, Self-Esteem Issues, Sequel (kind of?), Short & Sweet, Sick Character (mentioned), Soft Bruce Wayne, What-If, minor sickness, soft, tea is spilled, while ALSO working to expand them and encourage personal growth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:29:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23466151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Clark is (somehow) sick, and Bruce is making him tea, which he spills. A much-needed conversation (and yes,tea-spilling) ensues.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne (mentioned), Batman/Superman, Bruce Wayne & Being Awkward, Bruce Wayne & Having an Alien Boyfriend, Bruce Wayne & His Self Esteem, Clark Kent & Being an Alien (mentioned), Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: The Things That I Do For You [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693975
Comments: 12
Kudos: 166





	Spill That Tea

**Author's Note:**

> “But you have admitted that Love, from lack of good and beautiful things, desires these very things that he lacks.”
> 
> “Yes, I have.”
> 
> “How then can he be a god, if he is devoid of things beautiful and good?”
> 
> “By no means, it appears.”
> 
> “‘So you see,’ she said, “‘you are a person who does not consider Love to be a god.’”
> 
> “What then,” I asked, “can Love be? A mortal?”
> 
> “Anything but that.”
> 
> “Well what?”
> 
> “As I previously suggested, between a mortal and an immortal.”
> 
> “And what is that, Diotima?”
> 
> “A great spirit, Socrates: for the whole of the spiritual is between divine and mortal.”  
> — from _The Symposium_ , by Plato

Bruce is in his kitchen. It is quiet, save for the lingering hiss of the now-cooling tea kettle.

He opens one of the cabinets and takes out two mugs— the sturdy white ones for formal high tea (not that they’ve had one of those since he was about ten)— and two tea bags. Peppermint for him and Chamomile for Clark, who will occasionally take a good cuppa, but generally prefers coffee. As does Bruce, even after years of living with Alfred, much to the Englishman’s displeasure. But he still allows the drinks to steep for the appropriate amount of time.

After this, he tosses the tea bags into the trash, puts a few cubes of sugar into Clark’s mug, stirs, pours milk into each of their cups. Then it happens.

He’s facing the kitchen wall, and has just picked up both mugs, to take up to the bedroom.

“Hey.” The voice— _Clark’s_ voice— comes from very close behind him. In fact, as Clark speaks, he presses his chest against Bruce’s back. Bruce, of course, is not expecting his boyfriend to be out of bed (not after he sicced Alfred on the sick Kryptonian, anyway). He startles. Not dramatically, of course, but with two very full mugs in his hands, it’s enough.

“Christ!” Bruce shouts. The tea is, thankfully, not very hot, cooled as it is by the milk, but being drenched in warm liquid is still unpleasant. The remaining tea sloshes around in the mugs, and some of it drips from the mug onto his hands, and the floor. The tea suddenly drenching Bruce’s shirt spreads out, and soon clings to his skin quite unpleasantly. He sighs again. “Fuck.”

Bruce sets down the mugs, looks down at his shirt, the floor, and frowns again.

“You alright?” Clark asks. He’s taken a few steps back and is holding still; the better to not spook the wild animal even more.

Bruce grimaces. “Yeah, I’m fine. What’re you doing up?” He takes in his boyfriend’s appearance: still slightly peaky complexion, eyes glassy from the now-broken fever, nose a bit rosy, hair puffed up and untamed, and… _his_ sweatpants slung low on Clark’s hips. Bruce swallows, feeling warm and uncomfortable for a different reason now.

Clark coughs. It may be more psychosomatic than an actual symptom, but he feels a pang of worry shoot through himself anyway. “Woke up, you weren’t there. Came to find you.” Bruce blinks, and feels another pang of guilt. He knows that Clark is… _clingy_ at the best of times, why should he be any different when sick? “Hey,” Clark says gently. He goes to pull Bruce closer but hesitates, looking down.

Bruce blinks, and looks down too. “I should probably clean this up.” He sighs, then hands Clark his still half-full mug. “Here.”

Clark takes the (slightly damp) offering and smiles. He looks radiant. “Thanks, Bruce.”

He nods jerkily, grabs a few paper towels, and squats down to wipe up the rather large spill. Bruce does his best to ignore the way the lukewarm tea on his shirt begins to seep into his pants, and how the soaked fabric begins to cling even more annoyingly to his skin. As he straightens up, he’s unable to hold back a scowl. Clark already has the drawer with the trashcan in it open for him.

Bruce smiles his thanks, and turns around to clean up the spill on the countertop.

“That can’t be comfortable.”

He blinks, freezing for a moment in confusion. “What?”

“Your shirt is wet. That can’t be comfortable.”

Bruce swallows, and tries to control his racing heart. “It’s fine.”

“You should take it off.”

He clears his throat, and ignores Clark’s soft sigh. Bruce turns his focus to the wiping up the mess in front of him and very deliberately ignores the curious, slightly-concerned energy that his boyfriend is radiating. It’s fine. He may be uncomfortable, and embarrassed, but it’s fine. He’s dealt with worse. There is no need for Bruce to take his shirt off in front of Clark. In the very well-lit, daytime kitchen. In the open. For Clark (Superman) to see with his perfect vision.

Bruce swallows again and robotically tosses the used paper towels into the trash. He goes to pick up his own mug; the sooner he can move this fiasco upstairs, the sooner he can change, the sooner he can make Clark rest again (and forget this incident). “Bruce,” Clark says, in that soft way. _Shit_.

“What?” he ~~snarls~~ ~~snaps~~ asks tersely. His already-tight grip on the slippery mug handle tightens.

Clark sighs, sets down his mug, and takes a step forward. Bruce sets down his mug as well— no use risking another spill (then he’d have no choice but to let Clark _see him_ ). Then, surprising him, Clark puts his warm hand over the center of the patch of tea staining Bruce’s shirt— slightly past his first few ribs, directly under his heart. “Take it off. Please?”

Bruce swallows again, and doesn’t move. Clark removes his hand, but it feels as if his gaze pins Bruce to the same spot. He feels tension coiling within his muscles, and a vague sense of alarm spreads through him. _Why am I surprised? Clark **always** gets his way_. But this is slightly different. In the time they have been together, Bruce can count the number of instances he’s allowed Clark to see him naked, in daylight, on one hand. He exhales loudly, and starts to unbutton his shirt (glad for the way this allows him to stall).

It’s stupid really. He _shouldn’t_ mind doing this— **doesn’t** in the dark, or at night— he knows that. In the grand scheme of things, this insecurity is nothing more than an odd bit of vanity, really. Anyone would have it, if partnered with Clark. And Bruce, though he may wish otherwise, is not so different from anyone as to be immune to this. Besides, if he _had_ refused, Clark would think there’s an issue. And he would make them talk about it later. At least this way, Bruce maintains some control over the situation. His fingers only fumble a little over the last button. Then he removes the shirt and the equally-soaked undershirt.

Bruce stands there, chest and torso exposed, feeling almost like the vampire some people still claim Batman to be— everywhere the light touches (his scars), he feels burned.

Clark makes a noise (of appreciation?) and he stills. Bruce almost forgot he’s here ( _no he hadn’t_ ) he’s been so stuck in his own head. Then his boyfriend uncrosses his arms and strides forward. He reaches out a hand and hesitates, fingers only inches from Bruce’s torso. Bruce nods.

Clark runs his warm, smooth fingers down his side, over a few scars, and murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”

Bruce has a sudden urge to cross his arms, or to lurch away. He frowns— although he _is_ in peak physical condition, there are too many other things wrong for him to be considered beautiful. His face, sure (but even then, he’s had his nose broken, a few teeth knocked out). Clothed? Yeah, he could be called good-looking. He has nice hair (even if he’s started to go prematurely gray). But unclothed? Bruce’s body is a battleground, almost as scarred as his mind. There is nothing beautiful about trauma.

He blinks, and doesn’t realize that he’s stepped back until Clark hastily stops touching him, and instead says softly, “Hey, hey, hey. Come back to me, B.”

Bruce breaths shakily. “Don’t,” he says stiffly.

Clark cocks his head, one eyebrow raised.

“Don’t call me… I mean, I’m not— not beautiful.” His boyfriend’s lips purse and his eyes look sad. _Like a kicked puppy_. Something in Bruce’s chest hurts. He wishes he _could_ be beautiful. For Clark. But some things are beyond even Superman’s control.

“Alright.” Clark sighs, hands him his damp undershirt. “Alright,” he says, “I won’t call you beautiful.” He smiles sadly, but his eyes are gentle. Encouraging. They say that Clark would _like_ to call him beautiful. Someday. But he doesn’t say (or imply, or reveal) more than this. Bruce feels relieved.

“Thank you.”

They take their quarter-full, cold mugs of tea upstairs and he changes. Clark gets back under the covers and Bruce sits down next to him. They turn on the tv and watch some mindless public broadcast documentary about gardens for a while. He holds Clark’s hand until the other man falls asleep.

 _Perhaps someday, I’ll be able to let you_ , he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I’m American, and I drink (mostly) coffee at that. Do I like tea? Yeah, but I’m not too picky about how it’s made. Learn how to prepare tea the English way [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=80&v=2jZDBz0qVtM&feature=emb_title).


End file.
